The Redbreast hh-3

by Jo Nesbo

  'Haven't you heard?' Sindre said. 'The Russians will get us. Just as they got Gudeson.'

  Gudbrand remembered the German Wehrmacht captain who had been so amused when Sindre said he came from a farm on the outskirts of a place called Toten.

  'Toten. Wie im Totenreich?' the captain had laughed.

  He lost his grip on the bolt.

  'Fuck it!' Gudbrand's voice quivered. 'It's all the blood sticking the parts together.'

  He placed the top of the little tube of gun oil against the bolt and squeezed. The cold had made the yellowish liquid thick and sluggish-he knew that oil dissolved blood. He had used gun oil when his ear had been inflamed.

  Sindre leaned over and fiddled with one of the cartridges.

  'Jesus Christ,' he said. He looked up and grinned, showing the brown stains between his teeth. His pale, unshaven face was so close that Gudbrand could smell the foul breath they all had here after a while. Sindre held up a finger.

  "Who'd have thought Daniel had so much brain, eh?'

  Gudbrand turned away.

  Sindre studied the tip of his finger. 'But he didn't use it much. Otherwise he wouldn't have come back from no man's land that night. I heard you talking about going over. Well, you were certainly… good friends, you two, weren't you?'

  Gudbrand didn't hear at first; the words were too distant. Then the echo of them reached him, and he felt the warmth surge back into his body.

  'The Germans are never going to let us retreat,' Sindre said. 'We're going to die here, every man jack of them. You should have hopped it. The Bolsheviks aren't supposed to be as brutal as Hitler to people like you and Daniel. Such good friends, I mean.'

  Gudbrand didn't answer. He could feel the heat in his fingertips now.

  'We thought of nipping over there tonight,' Sindre said. 'Hallgrim Dale and I. Before it was too late.'

  He twisted in the snow and eyed Gudbrand.

  'Don't look so shocked, Johansen,' he grinned. 'Why do you think we said we were ill?'

  Gudbrand curled his toes in his boots. He could feel them now. They felt warm and good. There was something else too.

  'Do you want to join us, Johansen?' Sindre asked.

  The lice! He was warm, but he couldn't feel the lice. Even the whistling sound under his helmet had stopped.

  'So it was you who spread the rumours,' Gudbrand said.

  'Which rumours?'

  'Daniel and I talked about going to America, not over to the Russians. And not now, but after the war.'

  Sindre shrugged, looked at his watch and got on to his knees. 'I'll shoot you if you try,' Gudbrand said.

  'With what?' Sindre asked, gesturing towards the gun parts on the rug. Their rifles were in the bunker and they both knew that Gudbrand wouldn't be able to get there and back before Sindre had gone.

  'Stay here and die if you want, Johansen. All the best to Dale, and tell him to follow.'

  Gudbrand reached inside his uniform and pulled out his bayonet. The moonlight shone on the matt steel blade. Sindre shook his head.

  'People like you and Gudeson are dreamers. Put the blade away and join me. The Russians are getting new provisions across Lake Ladoga now. Fresh meat.'

  'I'm no traitor,' Gudbrand said.

  Sindre stood up.

  'If you try to kill me with that bayonet, the Dutch listening post will hear us and sound the alarm. Use your head. Who do you think they'll believe was trying to desert? You, with all the rumours there already are about your plans to do a runner, or me, a party member?'

  'Sit down, Sindre Fauke.'

  Sindre laughed.

  'You're no killer, Gudbrand. I'm off now. Give me fifty metres before you sound the alarm, so that you're in the clear.'

  They eyed each other. Small, feather-light snowflakes had begun to fall between them. Sindre smiled: 'Moonlight and snow at the same time. That's a rare sight, isn't it?'

  12

  Leningrad. 2 January 1943.

  The trench the four men were standing in was two kilometres north of their own section of the front, at the point where the trench doubled back, almost forming a loop. The captain stood in front of Gudbrand and was stamping his feet. It was snowing and there was already a thin layer of fine snow on the top of the captain's cap. Edvard Mosken stood next to the captain and observed Gudbrand with one eye wide open, the other almost closed.

  'So,' the captain said. 'Er ist hinuber zu den Russen geflohen? He's gone over to the Russians, has he?'

  'Ja' Gudbrand said.

  'Warum?

  'Das weifs ich nicht!

  The captain gazed into the distance, sucked his teeth and stamped his feet. Then he nodded to Edvard, mumbled a few words to his Rottenfuhrer, the German corporal accompanying him, then they saluted. The snow crunched as they left.

  'That was that,' Edvard said. He was still watching Gudbrand.

  'Yes,' Gudbrand said.

  'Not much of an investigation.'

  'No.'

  'Who would have thought it?' The one wide-open eye stared lifelessly at Gudbrand.

  'Men desert all the time here,' Gudbrand said. 'They can't investigate all of-'

  'I mean, who would have thought it of Sindre? Who would have thought he would do something like that?'

  'Yes, you could say that,' Gudbrand said.

  'On the spur of the moment. Just got up and made a run for it.'

  'Right.'

  'Shame about the machine gun.' Edvard's voice was cold with sarcasm. 'Yes.'

  'And you couldn't call the Dutch guards, either?'

  'I shouted, but it was too late. It was dark.'

  'The moon was shining.'

  They squared up to each other.

  'Do you know what I think?' Edvard said.

  'No.'

  'Yes, you do. I can see it in your face. Why, Gudbrand?'

  'I didn't kill him.' Gudbrand's gaze was firmly fixed on Edvard's cyclops eye. 'I tried to talk to him. He didn't want to listen to me. Then he just ran off. What could I have done?'

  Both of them were breathing heavily, hunched in the wind which tore at the vapour from their mouths.

  'I remember the last time you had the same expression, Gudbrand. That was the night you killed the Russian in the bunker.'

  Gudbrand shrugged. Edvard laid an icy mitten on Gudbrand's arm.

  'Listen. Sindre was not a good soldier, perhaps he wasn't even a good person, but we're moral individuals and we have to try to maintain a certain standard and dignity in all this. Do you understand?'

  'Can I go now?'

  Edvard looked at Gudbrand. The rumours about Hitler no longer triumphing on all fronts had begun to reach them now. Nevertheless, the stream of Norwegian volunteers kept growing, and Daniel and Sindre had already been replaced by two boys from Tynset. New young faces the whole time. Some you remembered, some you forgot as soon as they were gone. Daniel was one that Edvard would remember, he knew that. Just as he knew that, before long, Sindre's face would be erased from his memory. Rubbed away. Edvard Junior would be two in a few days. He didn't proceed with this line of thought.

  'Yes, go,' he said. 'And keep your head down.'

  'Yes, of course,' Gudbrand said. 'I'll be sure to keep my head down.'

  'Do you remember what Daniel said?' Edvard asked with a sort of smile. 'He said we walked so much of the time with a stoop that we would be hunchbacks by the time we returned home.'

  A machine gun cackled in the distance.

  13

  Leningrad. 3 January 1943.

  Gudbrand awoke with a start. He blinked a couple of times and saw only the outline of the row of planks in the bunk above him. There was a smell of sour wood and earth. Had he screamed? The other men insisted they were no longer kept awake by his screams. He lay there, feeling his pulse slowly calm down. He scratched his side-the lice never slept.

  It was the same dream as always that woke him. He could still feel the paws on his chest, see the yellow eyes in the dark, the white predator's teet
h with the stench of blood on them and the saliva that ran and ran. And hear the terrified heaving for breath. Was it his or the predator's? The dream was like that: he was asleep and awake at the same time, but he couldn't move. The animal's jaws were about to close around his throat when the chatter of a machine gun over by the door woke him, and he saw the animal being lifted off the blanket and flung against the earthen wall of the bunker as it was torn to pieces by the bullets. Then it was quiet, and on the floor lay a blood-strewn, amorphous mass of fur. A polecat. And then the man in the doorway stepped out of the dark and into the narrow strip of moonlight, so narrow that it only lit up half of his face. But something in the dream that night had been different. The muzzle of the gun smoked as it should and the man smiled as always, but he had a large black crater in his forehead. Gudbrand could see the moon through the hole in his skull when he turned to face him.

  Gudbrand felt the cold draught of air from the open door, turned his head and froze when he saw the dark figure filling the doorway. Was he still dreaming? The figure strode into the room, but it was too dark for Gudbrand to see who it was.

  The figure stopped abruptly.

  'Are you awake, Gudbrand?' The voice was loud and clear. It was Edvard Mosken. A displeased mumble came from the other bunks. Edvard came right up to Gudbrand's bunk.

  'You've got to get up,' he said.

  Gudbrand groaned. 'You haven't read the list properly. I've just come off watch. It's Dale's -'

  'He's back.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Dale just came and woke me. Daniel's back.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  In the dark, Gudbrand saw only Edvard's white breath. Then he swung his legs off the bunk and took his boots out from under the blanket. He usually kept them there when he was asleep so the damp soles wouldn't freeze. He put on his coat, which had been lying on top of the thin woollen blanket, and followed Edvard outside. The stars twinkled above them, but the night sky was growing paler in the east. Somewhere he could hear terrible sobbing. Otherwise it was strangely still.

  'New Dutch recruits,' Edvard said. 'They arrived yesterday and are just back from their first trip to no man's land.'

  Dale stood in the middle of the trench in an odd pose, his head tilted to one side and his arms away from his body. He had tied his scarf round his chin and his emaciated face with closed eyes in deep sockets made him look like a beggar.

  'Dale!' came the sharp command from Edvard. Dale woke up.

  'Show us.'

  Dale led the way. Gudbrand could feel his heart pumping faster. The cold bit into his cheeks; he still hadn't managed to freeze out the warm, dreamlike feeling he had brought with him from his bunk. The trench was so narrow that they had to walk in single file, and he could feel Edvard's eyes in his back.

  'Here,' Dale said, pointing.

  The wind whistled a hoarse tune under the rim of the helmet. On the ammunition boxes was a body with its limbs splayed stiffly out to the sides. The snow which had drifted into the trench had left a thin layer on top of the uniform. Sacking was tied round the head of the corpse.

  'Fucking hell,' Dale said. He shook his head and stamped his feet.

  Edvard didn't say a word. Gudbrand reckoned he was waiting for him.

  'Why haven't the corpse-bearers collected him?' Gudbrand asked finally.

  'They did collect him,' Edvard said. 'They were here yesterday afternoon.'

  'So why did they bring him back?' Gudbrand noticed that Edvard was eyeing him.

  'No one on the general staff knows of any orders to bring him back.'

  'A misunderstanding?' Gudbrand said.

  'Maybe.' Edvard flicked a thin, half-smoked cigarette out of a packet, turned away from the wind and lit it with a cupped match. He passed it on after a couple of drags.

  'The men who took him maintain he was put in one of the mass graves in the Northern Sector.'

  'If that's true, shouldn't he be buried?'

  Edvard shook his head.

  'They aren't buried until they've been burned. And they only burn during the day so that the Russians can't take advantage of the light. And at night the new mass graves are open and unguarded. Someone must have taken Daniel from there.'

  'Fucking hell,' Dale said again, taking the cigarette and inhaling greedily.

  'So it's really true that they burn the bodies,' Gudbrand said. "What for? In this cold?'

  I know that,' Dale said. 'It's because the ground is frozen. When the temperature rises in springtime, the earth pushes bodies upwards.' He reluctantly passed on the cigarette. 'Last winter we buried Vorpenes a long way behind our lines. In the spring we stumbled across him again. Well, what the foxes had left of him at any rate.'

  'The question is,' Edvard said. 'How did Daniel end up here?'

  Gudbrand shrugged.

  'You had the last watch, Gudbrand.' Edvard had screwed up one eye and turned the cyclops eye on him. Gudbrand took his time with the cigarette. Dale coughed.

  'I walked past here four times,' Gudbrand said, sending on the cigarette. 'He wasn't here then.'

  'You could have gone up to the Northern Sector during your watch. And there are sledge tracks over here in the snow.'

  'Could have been left by the corpse-bearers,' Gudbrand said.

  'The tracks are over the last boot prints. And you say you walked past here four times.'

  'Hell, Edvard, I can see it's Daniel over there too!' Gudbrand exploded. 'Of course someone put him there, and probably using a sledge. But if you're listening to what I'm saying you must be able to see that someone brought him here after I passed for the last time.'

  Edvard didn't answer; instead, visibly annoyed, he ripped the final couple of centimetres of the cigarette out of Dale's pursed mouth and stared disapprovingly at the wet marks on the cigarette paper. Dale picked the shreds of tobacco off his tongue and scowled.

  'Why in God's name would I bother with something like this?' Gudbrand asked. 'And how could I possibly drag a body from the Northern Sector over here without being stopped by patrols?'

  'You could have gone through no man's land.'

  Gudbrand shook his head in disbelief. 'Do you think I've gone mad, Edvard? What would I want with Daniel's body?'

  Edvard took the last two drags of the cigarette, dropped the end in the snow and trod it in with his boot. He always did that, he didn't know why, but he couldn't stand the sight of smoking cigarette ends. The snow gave with a groan as he twisted his heel.

  'No, I don't think you dragged Daniel here,' Edvard said. 'Because I don't think it's Daniel.'

  Dale and Gudbrand recoiled.

  'Of course it's Daniel,' Gudbrand said.

  'Or someone with the same build,' Edvard said. 'And the same unit insignia on the uniform.'

  'The sacking…'

  'So you can see a difference in the sacking, can you?' Edvard jeered, but it was Gudbrand he was watching.

  'It's Daniel,' Gudbrand said with a swallow. 'I recognise the boots.'

  'So you think we should just call the corpse-bearers and ask them to take him away again, do you?' Edvard asked. 'Without taking a closer look. That was what you were counting on, wasn't it?'

  'Go to hell, Edvard!'

  'I'm not so sure it's my turn this time, Gudbrand. Take off the sacking, Dale.'

  Dale gaped at the other two, who were glowering at each other like two rampant bulls.

  'Do you hear me?' Edvard shouted. 'Cut away the sacking!'

  'I'd prefer not to -'

  'It's an order. This minute!'

  Dale continued to hesitate. He looked from one to the other and at the rigid corpse on the ammunition chests. Then he shrugged his shoulders, unbuttoned his jacket and put his hand inside.

  'Wait!' Edvard shouted. Ask if you can borrow Gudbrand's bayonet.'

  Now Dale really was at sea. He looked quizzically at Gudbrand, who was shaking his head.

  'What do you mean?' Edvard asked, still face to face with Gudbrand.
'Your standing orders are that you must always carry a bayonet, and you don't have one on you?'

  Gudbrand didn't answer.

  'You, the ultimate killing machine with a bayonet, Gudbrand. You haven't simply lost it, have you?' Gudbrand still didn't answer.

  'In that case, yes, you'll have to use your own, Dale.'

  Gudbrand felt an irrepressible urge to tear the large staring eye out of the section leader's head. Rottenfuhrer, that's what he was! Or rather a 'Rat-fuhrer'. A rat with a rat's eyes and a rat's brain. Didn't he understand anything?

  They heard a ripping noise behind them as the bayonet cut through the sacking, then a gasp from Dale. Both men whirled round. There, in the red light of the dawning day, a white face with a hideous grin stared up at them with a third black gaping eye in the forehead. It was Daniel alright, no question about it.

  14

  Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 4 November 1999.

  Bernt Brandhaug looked at his watch and frowned. Eighty-two seconds, seven more than usual. Then he strode over the threshold to the meeting room, sang out his hearty 'Good morning' and smiled his famous white smile to the four faces turned towards him.

  Kurt Meirik, POT, sat on one side of the table with Rakel (complete with unbecoming hairslide, power suit and severe expression). It struck him that the suit seemed a little too expensive for a secretary. He still held to his intuition that she was divorced, but perhaps she had married well. Or did she have wealthy parents? The fact that she was here again, at a meeting that Brandhaug had signalled should take place in total privacy, suggested she was higher up in POT than he had at first assumed. He determined to find out more about her.

  Anne Storksen sat on the other side of the table with the tall, thin Crime Squad boss, what was his name? First of all it took him more than eighty seconds to get to the meeting room, and now he couldn't remember a name-was he getting old?

  He hadn't even thought this through to the end when the previous night's events came back into his mind. He had invited Lise, the young Foreign Office probationer, out to what he called a Little working lunch. Afterwards he offered her a drink at the Continental Hotel where, under the auspices of the Foreign Office, he had a permanent room at his disposal for meetings which required a little more discretion. Lise had not been difficult to ask out, she was an ambitious girl. But it had gone badly. A one-off, a drink too many perhaps, but surely he wasn't getting too old. Brandhaug shoved the idea to the back of his mind and sat down.